


Dirty Dancing

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Friends to Lovers, Gay Bar, Groping, Happy Ending, Kissing, M/M, References to BDSM, Threesome - M/M/M (Implied), Voyeurism, sub!Sherlock, these boys gon get freakayyy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 02:01:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6219271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poor Marcus just wanted to have a few drinks. He really wasn't prepared for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Dancing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluesyturtle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluesyturtle/gifts).



He shouldn’t have been there.

Marcus kept his head down, heart beating too fast. The alcohol, the interested glances from club regulars, the comforting bass humming through him; it’d been looking like a good night.

But then he’d looked across the room, at the dancefloor, and seen _him_ there.

At first he’d looked without seeing _,_ eyes drawn by the sight of tattoos under strobe lighting- and, hell, he’d _looked_ , stared at the slowly dancing body, the circling hips, the muscular arms raised above a mostly shaved head, developed shoulder blades exposed by his loose singlet. He was perfect. The right mix of wiry and muscular, the right mix of tall and not too tall. Hell, even his feet- bare, which is something that shouldn’t have been allowed into the nightclub- looked as attractive as feet could to someone who wasn’t a foot fetishist. He was exactly the sort of fuck Marcus looked for as a replacement for the fuck he couldn’t get.

And then the man turned his head to the side, mouth open, and Marcus took another look at those tattoos- and, with a jolt that had him nearly sending his drink tumbling, he realised why the stranger was so perfect.

Because he wasn’t a stranger.

Sherlock fucking Holmes was in a gay bar, _the same gay bar as Marcus,_ wearing clothes that defied everything Marcus had ever known or assumed about him.

And two men, tall and strong, both of them with skin suspiciously like Marcus’, where grinding up against him.

_Oh fuck._

Marcus turned his head away. Hid in his drink.

He could leave. He could pretend he hadn’t seen anything, continue on tomorrow like this had never happened, or…

“You okay, Mark?”

Mark. That’s right, Mark. That was his name.

“Yeah, Bobby.” He smiled shortly at the bartender. “Another?”

“Sure thing.”

Or he could indulge one of his favourite fantasies.

He looked down. His drink was mostly empty. It was a doomed decision; he couldn’t say no to this. Not right now.

So he looked up.

Hands were under Sherlock’s waist, lifting up his shirt, running fingers over the perfect abdomen Marcus had only glimpsed- arms were around his waist, and one of them was kissing his neck. Those marks would be there tomorrow, and _fuck_ Marcus wished he was the one biting that skin, flicking out his tongue and tasting that sweat, sucking, tasting, _bruising._ Sherlock tipped his head back, reached up and gripped one of them by the hair, and Marcus couldn’t hear anything over the sound of bass and dubstep, but he knew, he just knew that Sherlock was moaning.

Another drink landed in front of him.

He took a gulp. Bobby said something about making it last.

Sherlock turned, side on to Marcus, and kissed one of them. And- oh christ, there was tongue, and Marcus didn’t think Sherlock Holmes would ever kiss like that. He didn’t just kiss the guy, either. He grabbed him by the shoulders and pressed against him, arching up on his toes, rolling his pelvis forward in a slow press- and, fuck, his jeans were _way_ too low- the guy behind him grabbed his hips, pressing Sherlock between them, and Marcus so uncomfortable in his jeans he knew he’d have to leave soon to take care of it, but he didn’t want to stop watching, ever.

No way this was real. But he knew it was. He knew what was real, wasted as he was.

Sherlock opened his mouth, gasp masked by the music, as a hand slipped beneath his waistband. Marcus sucked in a breath, clenched and unclenched his fingers, gulped down another motherload of alcohol. His blood was turning into rum and whiskey; plain, heavy, sharp. He grimaced and blinked hard as the world swam.

Lights flashed, hard, quick, bright. Marcus’ head felt like a balloon. People walked past, nothing but blurs; white and brown bodies wrapped in leather and metal and denim, men Marcus would’ve worshipped on any other night. Men he would’ve taken into another room and held down, kissed, touched. But they were just on the way, tonight. He sat up, stared, as the guy behind Sherlock grabbed his hair roughly, forcing Sherlock’s head back, and assaulted his mouth- as the other guy attacked Sherlock’s bared neck with his teeth, _jesus_ -

Maybe god _was_ real.

They moved to the beat, the three of them- and Marcus could visualise it, see Sherlock between them, fucked from both ends- and, shit, yes, he just _knew_ Sherlock would make the most gorgeous noises. And he was such a sub, anyone watching could see that.

He shifted on the barstool, ordered another drink. Downed it.

Time passed. He ordered two more drinks, and he was hoping that surely the three would move to a room soon, and he was drunk enough to think maybe he could follow, maybe he’d kiss Sherlock and get to fuck him, show him the best time ever, make him moan, make him _beg_ … Yeah. He’d do that. Just after this drink.

Then Sherlock turned his head and looked at him.

Marcus froze, mouth on the rim of his glass.

For a moment, nothing happened. The two guys kept dancing, pushing up against him, but Sherlock was still, and Marcus was either about to make a run for it or go over there and pull Sherlock away by the hips- the latter being a plan he was second-guessing more and more every second that Sherlock stared at him.

He gathered up his wallet, fumbling in his haste to escape, and ran. He thought he heard his name being called, but that only made him flee faster, and he stumbled, grabbing onto a wall for support, some mostly naked passerby yelling at him to get the fuck out of the way- and then, finally, he was out into the parking lot, and he was gone.

 

When Marcus woke up, he was freezing.

And he had a high alcohol tolerance, so there was nothing to save him from the memories of the night previous, or the sloppy jerk off he’d managed in the shower before he’d crawled out to the couch, still wet in both senses of the word. He vaguely remembered not wanting to get his sheets wet, which might’ve explained why he was on the couch.

He looked down at himself; he’d managed to throw on a pair of jeans, but his fly was half undone and his t shirt was backwards. His clothes were clammy and stuck to his skin.

_Oh, Christ._

He sat up, slowly, head in his hands, groaning.

“Coffee, detective?”

“JESUS CHRIST!”

Sherlock jumped back, eyes wide. There was a teacup in his hand, which sloshed and spilt a little.

“Ah. I’ll clean that up.”

“Fuck- fuck the tea Sherlock, what the hell’re you doin’ in my apartment?!” The sun was hurting his eyes and his mouth tasted fucking gross- and he wouldn’t have put it past his stupid mind for this to be some kind of dumb sex dream. Hastily, he did up his fly.

But, contrary to the sex dream theory, Sherlock didn’t start stripping or something ridiculous like that. He sighed, walked over to the coffee table and put down his teacup. Marcus watched him wearily.

“I’m here because I hope to clear up any confusion or awkwardness, before we are forced to engage in a professional context. For the work, I hope you understand.”

“I…” Marcus tried not to look at the marks on Sherlock’s neck. There were more than he remembered. “…did you _break in_ here?”

“You left the door open.” Sherlock said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and Marcus put his head in his hands.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Contrary to my past… conveniences in cases, the door was actually unlocked this time. You should thank me. I might have saved you from a break-in. Or a robbery. Or both. The two, of course, generally being linked-”

“Did you drive my car here?”

“I- Yes. You left it at Hello Gorgeous. You came home on foot; It’s fortunate you live a short distance from the club. Relatively speaking.”

“My _car_ wasn’t unlocked.”

“Well, no. But-”

“I go to that place all the time.” Marcus snapped. He was too hungover and _way_ too humiliated for Sherlock’s particular brand of avoidance. “I ain’t never seen you there before.”

“I know.”

“ _Why_ were you there?”

There was a pause.

“You liked watching me. With them.”

Marcus lowered his head onto his knees, hunched over, trying to hide. He clawed at his scalp with curled fingers.

_Oh god._

“I’m sorry, alright. I shouldn’t- I should’ve left, when I saw-”

“I am not a subtle man, Marcus. But I can- on occasion- choose the wrong tactics for making something apparent.”

“If you don’t start talkin’ straight, Holmes, I swear-”

“Would you like to do it again?”

Marcus did a double take.

He slowly looked up, but Sherlock’s face was serious as ever.

“Would… Would I like to…?”

“Again.” There was a look in Sherlock’s eyes that had Marcus letting out a shocked breath. He knew that look. “As it was last night. You watching me with one, two, or three, others. Of course, if you wish, it could be just the two of us - but I did have you down as a voyeur, and my instincts are usually right. I had intended to invite you back into a room with the two other gentlemen, but you… well. Ran away. Quite literally.”

“You’re…” He licked his lips, swallowed. Sherlock’s stare was more intense than he’d ever seen it. “You’re fuckin’ with me.”

Sherlock smiled. “Not yet.”

Marcus kept staring.

“You’re… what? For an experiment or something? Is that it? What-”

“As I said,” Sherlock stepped forward, and Marcus sat back instantly, eyes wide.

_What the fuck. What the fuck, what the FUCK-_

“As I said, Marcus, I can sometimes choose the wrong tactics.”

Then he knelt.

“What-” Marcus shifted away as much as he could, closing his legs.

“I know you harbour sexual feelings for me. You needn’t worry…” He slid his hands onto Marcus’ thighs, fingers spread, short nails scraping across denim. “…no one else has noticed.”

Marcus kept his legs tightly pressed together. “Sherlock-”

“I want you.” Sherlock looked up at him, and Marcus had seen him in almost every state- he’d seen him manic, unconscious, delirious, excited, thrilled, furious, but this wasn’t any of those things. This was lust. Plain and simple. Dirty and needy. He’d seen men like this, so many men, dressed in leather and collars, kneeling, begging.

Fuck. He was getting hard again.

“You… Are you high?”

Sherlock shook his head, slowly, never breaking eye contact.

“No.”

He took a slow breath. “Drunk?”

“No.”

“Stupid?”

Sherlock grinned. “Do you want me?”

He swallowed, throat thick, heart thrumming. “I-”

“Yes. Or no.”

“I- Yeah, but-”

Sherlock ducked his head, opened his lips, and suddenly he was mouthing Marcus through his jeans.

“Then there’s nothing more to it. Is there?”

“You’re-” He shifted again, legs still pressed together. “- my colleague-”

“Mm. And not the first you’ve slept with.”

“Yeah, but-”

“Marcus.” Sherlock looked up at him, imploringly, pleadingly, hungrily. “Please.”

He licked his lips. Slowly opened his thighs.

Carefully, hesitantly, he reached down and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

“Say it again.”

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS MY FIRST UPLOADED FIC GUYS GET EXCITED FOR ME
> 
> Update: If you enjoyed this, go read my fic Dreaming!!! featuring actual sex!!!


End file.
